


Assimilate

by Sorida



Series: Believe in a Smiling...Cecil?! [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Hurt and Very Little Comfort, M/M, Possessed Cecil, RP Fanfic, Reference to non-con, Strexcorp, Tags will change as story progresses, Up to 49 - Old Oak Doors, believeinasmilingcecil, but no actual non-con described, he is so very possessed, putting the violence tag just in case, this is so strexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorida/pseuds/Sorida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He saved them all, he had to remember that. He had saved everyone from this terrible fate, from the life he now had to live. They didn't understand, would never understand, nor would they know the lengths their Voice would go to protect them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: This Is Not About You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azraeldigabriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azraeldigabriel/gifts).



> I was totally enamored and inspired by believeinasmilingcecil (which you can find at believeinasmilingcecil.tumblr.com) that I'm writing a series of fics??? Because my heart flocked to the angst and potential and whump like a starved animal???
> 
> Anyways, a lot of elements and threads from the RP blog will be incorporated into the story. I'm planning on potentially writing two stories if the muse lasts that long, plus a few random oneshots here and there. Can't wait to see this project through and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

It begins with loyalty. It is spurred by betrayal. It ends with acceptance. That is how humans function or, at least, how they should.

Humans are fickle. Humans are trusting. Humans are skeptical. Humans are scared. Humans are nothing more than tiny pinpricks of existence in the vast scope of time and space. Humans are everything we believe ourselves to be and far more.

Humans believe. Humans rebel. Humans live. Humans die. Humans simply want to be. Humans simply want to be _more_.

And then some humans simply want nothing more. The hand that life has dealt is a good one. They desire no fame or fortune. They desire nothing more than love and happiness and stability. Sometimes, they get that. But some humans are forced to become more than what fate had intended for them. Some humans are at the mercy of an ever-changing, chaotic universe where timelines run parallel yet the outcomes are so very different.

In one story, a small desert community overthrows a corporate takeover. It reclaims itself, restores its balance, but with the price of a scientist. An Outsider. But all continues well enough until the memories stop holding true and ownership is made known. And a simple radio host struggles to understand who he is, what he is, and how much of his life was predetermined and how much of it he has control of. While confusing, something works out in the end. Something always works out in the end for this town.

However, in another timeline with the same people and the same predicament, they fall. A community collapses in on itself, struggling to breathe beneath the rubble of lies and deceit and hopelessness. A scientist, the Outsider, sits safely in another desert, far removed from the situation at hand. A twelve year-old, with knowledge beyond her years and wisdom beyond true comprehension, is struck down beneath wave after wave of horrific light. The town follows. The Angels are not present and neither is their summoner, their caretaker. They have fallen, wings burned beyond recognition. Crippled. Destroyed. Unworthy.

A God ravages the town, a wicked smiles dancing across the sky it now inhabits. The people below scatter and wail, clawing at their eyes as divine, pain-inducing light reigns from the heavens they were never meant to see. And yet, they believe. They cry and they shout and they believe...and that is the most important part.

But there is one man who refuses to give, one man who stays ever by his microphone. The man is completely average on all accounts, except for one: his Voice. As the broadcast continues, the follower count goes stagnant. Half of the town remains indoors, glued to the man on the radio. They stay inside, cover their windows, lock their doors, and take cover in the familiar darkness. They are safe. They are free.

No, no, no! This will never do! The whole town needs to believe! They must! Desert Bluffs and StrexCorp could only provide so much. No, this God needed more, was hungry for even more. And now it was angry. Now, it was vengeful. Someone had stranded his perfectly good Host in another Dimension and, well, that just wouldn't do. The God needs a Host. The God needs a Voice.

And it had just found both.

It begins with an origin story. It is spurred by fear. It ends with acceptance.

After all, in great times of stress, it is the only thing we can do to get by.

I will spare you the details of that day. I will spare you the knowledge and the chilling grasp of helplessness. Instead, I will tell you the tale of a man so willing to give and then receive nothing in return.

Let it be known that a deal was made. Let it be known that a secret was kept. Let it be known that every story has many sides and that every story affects more than just You, Me, and Them.

This is not a story about You or Me or Them. No, this is a story about Him. And this, dear readers...this is how it goes.


	2. There Is No Origin Chapter: Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story starts here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of trying to combine my current, super informal writing style with a previous style I was trying out with a RotG fic. I should finish that thing, it was actually pretty decent.

_Mirrors were weird._

_Time was strange._

_How much time had he lost?_

_...How much time had he gained?_

Asking questions was an instinct. He'd done it all his life and it always got him into trouble. But asking questions meant he was alive, he was a witness, and he could remove himself from any given situation, no matter how life-altering.

“Do you  **s e e** , d a r l i n g  _C e c i l_? You and I are  **o n e**. A beautiful  _c o e x i s t e n c e_.”

No matter. How. Life-altering.

That wasn't his Voice. It couldn't be his Voice. It didn't feel like it, didn't sound like it, it just...it just _wasn't_. Yet the words came from his mouth, rumbled out of his vocal chords like some perverted growl. He spoke those words, but he didn't. He didn't control those words and somehow, that was more frightening than any of the mounting consequences would ever be.

Breathe. Think. Deny.

_What did this mean for him?_

_The show was still a thing, right?_

_Could a mere mortal host two otherworldly forces?_

_Was Carlos ok?_

He flinched as half of his face spread into a feral grin. He felt the pull of the muscles as thick, black ichor oozed from his mouth and eye. It was the only sign of rebellion, of his body rejecting this foreign power. Hopefully, it was temporary. It was starting to run down his chin, leaving blotchy stains on his shirt. It was disgusting and icky and _so much like himself_.

“You are q u i t e the looker, aren’t you?" the Smiling God crooned. He shuddered, closing the eye he still controlled, desperately trying to block out the image of himself. This was him. This was what he had done. He chose this. He had a choice and he chose Night Vale, would always choose Night Vale.

_Be strong. Be like Tamika Flynn._

_It would've killed everyone._

_He wasn't a hero._

"My  _t h a n k s_  for your  **g i f t**. Your body is e x c e p t i o n a l.” No, it wasn't. His body was average. It was of average build and average height. And sure, maybe the extra appendages might have made it worthwhile, but he was just another face in the crowd. All he had was a Voice and without it, he wouldn't be much of anything. As it was, he was just Cecil. Simple, plain, average Cecil. He smirked bitterly. Just that morning, he resented being so average.

Now, he would do anything to get it back.

Life, right?

“My  _d e a r e s t_  vessel, shall we  **d e p a r t**?” It was less of a question and more of a demand, one that Cecil followed without hesitation. The sheet was draped over the mirror, covering it from sight once again. Thank goodness because ugh, mirrors...

He practically sprinted out of the bathroom without giving the resident floating cat family a second glance. Khoshekh had hissed something fierce when he'd walked in. It both terrified him and made a knot of gut-wrenching hurt settle in his torso. He really hope he didn't cough that up later. Those things had a tendency to manifest and with all the sludge dripping out of him, it wasn't going to be pleasant.

Once he reached the bloodstone doors, he froze. He couldn't go out there, then everyone would know. And the last things he saw before entering the studio...would Night Vale still look so ravaged? Buildings had collapsed, some citizens had been burnt beyond recognition and oh masters, the  _smiles_ would haunt his nightmares for years to come. That is, if his own didn't do so already.

What would he face out there? What was left? Did the Smiling God restore Night Vale to what it had been before? Was the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex still standing, sans the miniature militia? Were people stopping by Big Rico's to pick up their mandatory slice? Was the Moonlite All-Nite Diner still serving that baclava coffee special? Were the scientists doing science in the lab? Were the pulses from Hidden Gorge being counted and interpreted in order to determine who the new mayor would be? Was Old Woman Josie baking corn muffins with the Erikas?

Did Night Vale survive?

He could feel the god laughing at him. The sound reverberated through his skull, echoing across their now shared mindscape. Cecil grit his teeth, hands curling into fists. He did this for Night Vale, he had to remember that. If he didn't, then they all would have been destroyed. It was better this way, so much better. He knew the consequences, he knew what he was getting himself into, and he was the only bargaining chip. A Voice is not so easily beaten.

But if Night Vale was ok, could he face them? Would they understand what he had done, what he had to do to ensure their continued existence? That was silly, of course they would. He'd grown up with these people, informed them of so much. He was their Voice, they had to listen to him. They would understand, right?

Or would they blame him? Would they hate him? Would they see him as the enemy now? After all, the enemy was inside of him and could control him. Oh...it  _could_ control him. It had said so much, that the Voice was important. It needed the influence, needed more believers than just Desert Bluffs, especially with the mortality rate being almost worse than Night Vale's. And Cecil - stupid, foolish Cecil - had offered the Voice as a bargaining chip. He was entrusted with great power and bartered it for what, maybe a decade more of survival? The Voice was the only thing keeping the god completely contained and if the god grew enough, used the Voice enough, the Voice would fall before another could take its place. There were no prophecies for another Voice, not yet, and at this rate, there wouldn't be for at least twenty years. And even when the new Voice made itself known, it would take another fifteen for it to mature and by then, it would be too late.

The thoughts were fleeting and Cecil forgot them almost instantly. Immunity from a mirror would do that, help him remember and then have the knowledge taken away for his safety. For the safety of a vessel. But the heart of the thought stuck: Night Vale would _hate_ him. As soon as he stepped out those doors, the Sheriff's Secret Police would know. They would see what he had become and that knowledge would spread all over town, faster than the lights racing down Route 800. And they would all look at him with disgust, just as he had with his reflection, and they would  _know._ He was the face of the Smiling God now and there was no way to hide it. And if they knew he had the choice, what then? What would they say? What would Tamika Flynn say?

What would Carlos say?

They would say the worst because he had the choice to say no. He could have said no. He could have been a bystander again instead of a player. After all, he was a reporter, he wasn't supposed to be a player in anything. His job was to observe, that was his purpose. And to so deeply go against that, to defy the laws of generations upon generations of reporters well...it wouldn't be taken lightly.

He wasn't a hero and he was never, ever supposed to be one.

And that's why he could never tell them about the deal.

He wanted to go back to his booth and curl up in a corner. He didn't want to leave the radio station, didn't want to face the world that rested behind those cold stone doors. He'd gladly deal with whatever punishment Station Management would come up for him instead of entering the world he left behind. But this is reality and in reality, he couldn't drop everything and pretend he didn't exist. Besides, the City Council wouldn't stand for that and they were far more intimidating than any ordinary citizen, no matter how angry or hurt said citizen could be.

With a sigh and a grimace, he pushed against the doors and stepped into the sunlight. The Smiling God reveled in the feeling, loving the sensation of desert heat upon blood-spattered skin. Cecil loathed every second, anxiety building as a shrub to his left rustled and a soft "Oof!" was heard. No going back now.

Straightening his posture as much as he could, Cecil desperately grasped to whatever dignity he had left and strode to his car. Everything was the same. The telephone polls were upright, the station looked no worse for wear, and he could see other citizens going about their daily routines. It seemed as though no time had been lost between, like Night Vale had been reset to a time before the Yellow Helicopters invaded their territory.

"They w i l l **remember** a  _different_ story," the Smiling God informed, curving half of Cecil's mouth into a painful smirk. " _They_ will r e m e m b e r winning, led by  **Tamika Flynn.** She will be their  **h e r o."**

"Then so be it," Cecil replied, casually opening the driver's door. "She was their hero to begin with." Theirs. Not his. Theirs.

Because now, he was beyond saving.

* * *

 

In a desert beyond this one, a lone scientist travelled through a desert otherworld, led by a masked army and an old lighthouse. The rumbling stopped, thoroughly confusing all residents as to why. It was a scientifically interesting phenomenon and this scientist would love to figure out why, but he should probably call his boyfriend first. Leave a message, at the very least.

In a marble building filled with shadows and secrets, a young woman was told of her new position. She accepted the position with grace and ferocity, something a 12 year-old heroine could look up to. The two had their differences, but in the end, a mutual respect and partnership had formed. The new Mayor of Night Vale took office, too busy to think of a radio host alone with his thoughts.

In a not-so-covert undisclosed location, a scared officer explained what they had seen. Their Voice housed something terrible, if the seeping ichor was anything to go by. A Voice's defense against strong possessions was activated within its host's body. He was a host with two entities. There was only so much a body could take. He would fall and the Voice would fall with him. Whatever was inside him, whatever was emitting that terrible, terrible light, would consume them and destroy them. The Sheriff had a very short amount of time to make the hardest call of his life.

In a rickety, old house, an Erika informed an old woman of the events. All of the Erikas, as heavenly beings, were unaffected by this reset. They had two sets of memories running parallel through their heads. A few had three and were unknowing of what to do. But one thing was for sure: a divine being had tampered with the laws of time and reality to erase a past event. And if those old memories served correct, the one place not completely decimated in Night Vale had been the Night Vale Community Radio Station. And the old woman laid down her cross stitch and let the words sink in. They knew the truth, they knew what happened, and because of their inability to protect Night Vale, someone had paid for that mistake dearly. They had to make it right, for it was their responsibility and theirs alone. They would save the Voice of Night Vale.

In an ancient, semi-abused car, a not-so-average man drove home. Unbeknownst to him, four plans were being made. Four agendas, four outcomes, four different paths for his future to take. He was in the center of it all, but not really. After all, he was sitting in a car, trying desperately to find a way to continue living as he had. That was all he wanted. A god, cruel and smiling, resided inside, experimenting with his control and nearly careening them off the road. The man frowned. The god smiled. He refused to work in tandem. It refused to back down. The Vessel would obey, the god would make it so.

And as the day fell to night, the plans were set. A makeshift richter scale was erected from an old radio, a gramophone, and a working smartphone. An initiation was taking place at City Hall. An order was being drafted before being discarded and started again. A forbidden book was consulted as knowledge was pooled between every Erika in Night Vale. An apartment door was slammed shut and a figure flopped onto a too empty bed.

Tomorrow was another day.

It began with betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short. Idk if I like the style yet but hey, I haven't tried this too much before so I'm going with it. Chapters will be longer as we go on, hopefully growing to average 3,000-5,000 words per. But we'll see. It's taken me two years to realize that even in fiction, quantity does not equal quality.
> 
> Also, snatching quotes from azraeldigabriel's drabble like a boss. The origin story exists so I'm not touching it. You can, however, find it here: azraeldigabriel.tumblr.com/post/100700114931/the-beginning-a-drabble

**Author's Note:**

> Pssssssssstttttttt, go check out the blog! :D


End file.
